


like i love you

by outofcases (hockeycaptains)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Boy Kissing, Canon verse, M/M, liam centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hockeycaptains/pseuds/outofcases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a performance goes poorly for Liam, he takes it hard.  Zayn just wants him to be okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like i love you

**Author's Note:**

> my first fic in this fandom, so i'm still feeling out characterization and the like. unbeta'd because i still can't believe i wrote rpf, so all mistakes are mine. be gentle, and i hope you enjoy.

He flubbed the note.

It’s all Liam can think about. He hadn’t warmed up properly and he was out of tune and then, when he needed to redeem himself most, his voice cracked sharply, like he was still a teenager, like he’d gotten into the business by sheer luck and nothing else. And, well, that was that. He’s pacing his hotel room now, wringing his hands together as he goes in a concerted effort not to pick up his phone and check his twitter mentions; there are always some nasty comments, but the difference is today he thinks they’d be founded, they’d be accurate, and he doesn’t think he can deal with that. 

He takes another lap. The room is so small, at least it feels small, and he thinks that by the time he’s calmed down the carpet will have holes in it from where his feet burned right through. If he could, he’d leave the hotel altogether and lace up his running shoes, sprint the streets until he was gasping for breath, but dinner is in twenty minutes and if he skips out people will ask questions. He isn’t sure he could handle questions right now. Just keeps thinking about the way his voice shook and warbled like a live wire, the way Harry looked at him with his big, earnest eyes right after, like he knew this would happen, like he knew Liam would blame himself.

He spins on his heel, anger and frustration making him unpredictable, and punches his pillow. It feels a bit ridiculous, at first, but it helps, and he keeps doing it, over and over, until some of the blind rage seeps out of him. He thinks back to primary school and failed boxing lessons. Liam was great at hitting a bag, proper form and all, but the second he was supposed to hit a person the aggression flicked off like a light switch.

Five minutes to dinner and he’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, trying to calm down so he can get through the evening. There’s a knock at his door.

“Liam?” It’s Zayn’s voice, muffled by distance and caution. Liam huffs out a heavy breath, stands up, and goes to open the door.

He immediately regrets it once he sees how put together Zayn looks (he always looks put together, but every day the flutter of Liam’s heartbeat gets worse, every day the curl in his stomach gets a little hotter). Liam doesn’t want to know how he looks right now. Probably like regret, or maybe defeat.

They share a moment of quiet, and Liam steps aside to let him in.

“You were brilliant today, mate,” says Liam, and manages it with only half a shade of self-deprecation. 

He can almost see the cogs in Zayn’s head turning where he sits on the corner of the bed, mirroring Liam’s earlier position with more grace than Liam could ever manage. “Thanks,” he responds slowly, because he’s used to Liam’s praises but not like this.

The sun has long since set, but the lamplight is painting gold over the room and over the bed and over the window and over Zayn and there are traces of loathing running hot in Liam’s blood. He rolls his shoulders, tries to shake it off if only for appearances.

“We should go, yeah? Don’t want to keep the boys waiting.”

Zayn shrugs, apparently indifferent. “They’re expecting me to be late, anyway. I’m not exactly the best with time.” It’d be rueful if it didn’t sound so much like fact.

Liam concedes the point but doesn’t stop fidgeting, doesn’t stop moving his hands. There’s tension in the room, thick and heavy, and Liam feels like he’s suffocating because Zayn won’t even look at him and he flubbed the note and he was supposed to be downstairs three minutes ago but instead he’s here drowning in the silence between him and the person who’s supposed to be his best mate. And suddenly he’s afraid of what dinner will be like, if they’ll bring it up, if they’ll see the blood on his palms from where his nails broke the skin.

Liam feels half-hysterical, starts pacing again, and Zayn sees the shift, says “if you really care that much about the time…” and hops to his feet in a single lithe movement. It’s obvious he knows what’s bothering Liam, but he doesn’t mention it, and Liam feels so grateful he could kiss him.

He doesn’t kiss him. Instead, they walk side by side to the elevator and then the hotel restaurant, ignoring the few camera flashes coming through the windows. Harry and Niall are already there, chatter carefree and laughter careless, egging each other on the way only those two can. They both perk up when they see Zayn and Liam, eyes wary when they spot him but smiles no less genuine, and Liam feels something loosen in his chest. He can do this, he thinks, get through the night, and when he takes his seat his shoulders aren’t quite as tense as they were.

Louis comes down ten minutes later and feigns shock when he sees that he’s the last to arrive, laughs when Zayn flips him off. Dinner starts out easy. They chat about the schedule for tomorrow, which involves a long plane flight and hopefully lots of sleep, and Liam almost smiles. It’s progress. The conversation inevitably turns toward the performance earlier, but it’s mostly inane commentary. They order drinks, the waitress blushes, and it’s easy.

And then Niall says something ridiculous, along the lines of “I’d sell my firstborn child for another plate of pasta,” and Liam laughs with the rest of them.

“I’ve got to put that on Twitter,” he says, still chuckling and reaching for his pocket. He isn’t expecting Zayn to grab his wrist and tighten his fingers until Liam stops, or for the other three to shout _no!_ in perfect sync.

Liam rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says, and then, a bit petulant, “I thought it was funny, at least.”

He goes to take another bite of his food when he realizes that Zayn’s fingers are still wrapped around his wrist. “Zayn,” he murmurs, “you’re cutting off my circulation, there.” Zayn releases him. The table is quiet for a few moments. Liam can hear himself chewing.

Harry is the first to speak. “You know, Liam, maybe it’s better if you don’t check Twitter at all for a bit, don’t even open it.” It comes out faster than Harry’s usual drawl. 

Liam is starting to realize what this is all about. “Why?” he asks anyway, because maybe he’s a masochist but he wants to hear it, wants to know the truth about what people think.

“Harry.” Zayn’s voice is low. A warning. Harry keeps his mouth shut.

Louis isn’t so easily deterred. “You were off today, Liam. Screwed up your high note.” Zayn is glaring daggers now. “Oh bugger off Zayn, everyone could tell, you aren’t protecting him from anything. Liam, you know exactly why they want you off Twitter. The fans can be nasty. There’s hate. You can either wallow, or you can remember that it’s all shit and get over it.”

Liam feels the heat flooding to his face. He knows he’s pathetic when he gets like this, that he shuts down and retreats into himself and lets the hate get the best of him, but he doesn’t know how to brush it off, isn’t good at it like the others. He feels very small all of a sudden, hears the scrape of his chair before he realizes he’s getting up.

“Right,” he nods, jerky, “I’ll be in my room, then.”

And he flees.

When he gets to his room, he slams the door behind him and sinks down, leaning against it, chest heaving. He pulls out his phone, too, figuring that if he’s going to do this he might as well do it all the way. Twitter is just as toxic as he’d been expecting. He flicks through his mentions with shaking hands.

_@Real_Liam_Payne lol how did u get into one direction u cant even sing??_

_I love 1d sosososo much (except @Real_Liam_Payne why is he still in it)_

_leave the band @Real_Liam_Payne the boys will thank u_

_is @Real_Liam_Payne anyone’s favorite after that???_

He’s interrupted when he hears a click and a beep right above his head, and the door handle begins to turn. He scrambles away from the door before he spills out into the hall, and hurriedly wipes at his face, chagrined to find that a few tears had managed to escape his eyes. 

Zayn peeks his head in slowly, as if he’s expecting Liam to turn him away. To be fair, Liam wants to, but he’s too tired by this point to put up a fight. “How’d you get in here?” he asks, before he can say something he’ll regret.

“We asked Paul for a key. He said I was the only one he trusted enough to give it to. Jeez, Liam, you’re turning _me_ into the sensible one,” he says, chuckling a little, quietly, and it sounds a bit like music.

The lamp is still on. The room still feels like gold. “I’m sorry,” says Liam.

Zayn looks genuinely perplexed. “For what?”

And for one brief and heart-stopping moment, Liam thinks he can’t do it. The words are stuck in his throat, the room is too small and quickly getting smaller, and he flubbed the note and now everyone hates him, and-

“All of it,” he chokes out, somehow, “the performance and how I can’t stop hating myself and how everyone else hates me and I’m bringing you lads down and I’m really, really sorry…”

Zayn crouches down until he’s eye level with Liam and they’re both mostly on the ground. He grabs Liam’s wrists (and Liam wishes it were his hands, sometimes, but Zayn always goes for the wrists and Liam needs to stop being so selfish) and holds them out between them.

Liam feels a sudden urge to scrub a hand through his hair or over his face. Feels hot all over. Zayn’s looking like at him with eyes like distress signals, like maybe he’s as out of his depth as Liam is. But Zayn also looks like he’s willing to try.

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” he says, “nothing. Understood?”

Liam can only stare back and try to stop his hands shaking.

The seconds tick on and Zayn looks frustrated. Liam wants to apologize again for putting that look on Zayn’s face but he isn’t sure he could work his vocal chords if he tried, feels helpless helpless helpless and doesn’t do a thing about it.

“You,” starts Zayn, and cuts himself off, tries again, “You don’t get it, do you? How incredible you are. You don’t see it. You work harder than any of us, you can’t- you can’t beat yourself up for one bad day, Liam. You can’t.”

Zayn’s voice is imploring and his eyes are like lasers and Liam keeps thinking _said her name was Georgia Rose_ and it hurts, being pulled in two directions like this. 

He hears Zayn, knows what he’s saying. But a larger part of him is shouting about perfection and how Liam is a failure for letting the pressure get to him, and. Well. He still can’t breathe.

He can tell the moment Zayn realizes he isn’t getting through. 

Liam shuts his eyes because he’s hurting his friend and he doesn’t want to see that, and it’s because his eyes are closed that he doesn’t realize how close Zayn has gotten until their lips are touching, and he short circuits a bit. It’s sweet and slow and gentle, like Liam is something fragile, or maybe precious, and it makes Liam’s resolve crumble.

It also makes his heart race, and his mind whirl. They’re kissing. They’re kissing.

One of Liam’s wrists is freed when Zayn winds a hand through Liam’s hair, and when they both come up for air Liam gasps quietly. His eyes are as round as saucers, and Zayn looks nervous but determined. “You have to believe me,” he says, “because I can’t stand watching you beat yourself up. And, god, this is _not_ how I wanted to tell you, but.” Zayn bites his lip, looks at Liam’s mouth again like he can’t help it. 

Liam feels numb, almost trips over himself to say “me too,” isn’t even totally sure what he’s agreeing to but knows it’s true.

“Really?” asks Zayn, “You mean it?”

Liam forgets about Georgia Rose and Twitter mentions and sad eyes, lets it go. Takes a breath. Musters up all the courage he has and says, “I’ve fancied you for two years, you idiot, of course I mean it.”

Zayn’s eyes light up like Christmas, and talking is abandoned in favor of more kissing and wandering hands, and Liam thinks he’ll be all right.


End file.
